


drabble dump 014

by highboys (orphan_account)



Series: drabble dumps [14]
Category: Kuroko no Basket
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 05:13:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/highboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mpreg AU for Basa, TURN BAAAAACK.</p>
            </blockquote>





	drabble dump 014

**Author's Note:**

  * For [namekko](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=namekko), [dollyerotica](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=dollyerotica).



> I'm so gomen for everything.
> 
> Includes: babies ever after, porn, and crack.

 

 

**( Aomine, Kise/Kuroko. In which Kise experiences the joys of Couvade syndrome. )**

 

 

"Is he okay?" Aomine asks, leaning back to look at the general direction of the hallway, where Kise vanished seconds ago in search of the nearest porcelain surface.

"Ryouta tends to be overdramatic," says Kuroko -- Kise, now, Aomine keeps forgetting; the years are long and junior high is so far away, and yet Tetsuya, for all his relative youth, finally settles into the calmness he'd been afforded since they were young. "He'll be fine after a few minutes."

"He's not even the one who's pregnant."

"This is a sensitive time for him," says Tetsuya. He's laughing, though.

"Well, whatever," says Aomine, dunking his bread into his coffee. "Though I can't say he'll make it past the delivery without fainting."

"I've commissioned Kagami-kun to prop Kise up if it comes to that," says Tetsuya. "Kasamatsu-san promised to bring a video camera, too."

Aomine snorts, not unkindly. "Kasamatsu will probably film Kise the whole time just to torture him for missing out on the birth of his only child."

"Only?" Tetsuya says, mildly.

"First," Aomine amends. "But you better not let Kise hear that, or else he'll probably want _eleven_."

"That's not true," says Tetsuya. He looks a little disconcerted, though. Aomine bites into his bread, soggy from the coffee, and smirks.

"Have you even seen how he looks at you," says Aomine.

"Everyday," says Tetsuya. "But I've gotten used to it, I think."

No, not quite, Aomine thinks, because when Kise returns, grumbling and rubbing his noise against the long line of Tetsuya's nape, Tetsuya's skin blossoms red, from where Kise's lips touch his; it simmers and aches.

"Gross," says Aomine, stealing crumbs from Tetsuya's plate. "This is like watching my parents all over again."

 

 

**( Kise/Kuroko. In which Kise celebrates a birthday by attempting to sleep in. )**

 

 

The eighteenth of June and the room was still dark. Tetsuya thought to move his arm, shielding his eyes. He tried to lift his fingers; they were trapped.

"Ryouta," he groaned out. "Ryouta, you're heavy."

Ryouta said nothing, content to doze against Tetsuya's shoulder. His nose was buried against the crook of Tetsuya's neck, sticky from the heat and sweat. His mouth was making wordless protests into Tetsuya's skin.

"Ryouta," said Tetsuya, "get up."

Ryouta stirred, and squirmed when Tetsuya drew closer. He sighed, then -- a lingering sound. When Tetsuya bent his head lower, Ryouta's hair smelled of oranges. His stomach rumbled, at the thought.

"No," said Ryouta, stubborn when he awoke. "We're staying in bed today."

"I'm hungry," said Tetsuya. "And I need a shower."

"You smell wonderful," Ryouta lied.

"I really don't," said Tetsuya. "Just ask the children, when they wake up."

From the doorway, they heard the pad of small feet. One was faster, footsteps heavy against the wooden floors; the other lagged behind, tiny steps that Tetsuya wanted to catch. Ryouta touched Tetsuya's stomach, the swell of it under his clothes. Years later they would remember this sound, like they remembered the shade of Ryouji's eyes, when he opened his eyes for the first time, or the disquieting nights when Ryouichi refused to cry. Younger, then, and less inexperienced; even now, the anxiety was still there.

"Too late," Ryouta said. He rose in time to Ryouichi throwing his weight against Ryouta's chest, all 40 pounds of baby fat and bones. Ryouji toddled, slower, still; he fisted the sheets at the edge of his bed, distressed.

"Happy birthday," Ryouichi yelled out, jumping in Ryouta's arms. Ryouta caught his fingers, in the air; he pretended to bite into Ryouichi's tiny nails. "Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday!"

Ryouji looked at Ryouta, still dismayed. He was barely tall enough to clamber on. "Want up," he said, the beginning of a sob. His eyes were darker, now, wet with tears. "Papa, want up."

"Hush," said Tetsuya, wrapping his arms around Ryouji. Ryouji fussed at his collar, and stuck the cloth into his mouth. "When you cry --"

"-- an angel cries with you," Ryouichi finished, Ryouji long distracted with whimpering into Tetsuya's shirt. Ryouta looked askance; he hefted Ryouichi closer.

"What have you been teaching them?" Ryouta asked.

"Lots of stuff," said Ryouichi, "like letters and--"

"Songs," Ryouji said, through a mouthful of cloth. Tetsuya smoothed his hair down with careful fingers, working at the tangles as he rocked Ryouji in his arms.

"And drawing--"

"Numbers!"

"And how to write our names," Ryouichi finished. He wiggled in Ryouta's hold.

Ryouta narrowed his eyes at him, but Ryouichi covered his face with his fingers; he peeked between the gaps. When Ryouta was younger, he had a round face, like Ryouichi's. Tetsuya wondered if Ryouichi would be all angles, when he grew older. If he would look like Ryouta too. Ryouichi smiled.

"Staring is rude," said Ryouichi. He'd gotten less of Ryouta's face, and more of his forwardness. Ryouta touched his nose to the back of Ryouichi's hand, and laughed.

"I'm so sorry, your majesty," said Ryouta, "this lowly servant is undeserving of your presence."

"Whatssit mean," said Ryouji, sleepily.

"No lessons on Sunday," Ryouichi complained.

"You sound exactly like me," Ryouta agreed. He bent to soothe him with a kiss that made Ryouichi groan. When Ryouta kissed Tetsuya, instead, it was longer and made Tetsuya's toes curl. "Let's go make breakfast, then?"

"In a minute," said Tetsuya. His legs were asleep, from Ryouji's weight, but he was smiling. Ryouta led Ryouichi to the hallway on his shoulders, their chattering growing quiet as Ryouji fell back to sleep. In a few months, there would be none of this peace, only sleeplessness, and some tears. Milk in the refrigerator, diapers to change, Ryouichi's old crib to be moved from the spare room. Their youngest would have his eyes, he thought, like Ryouji's, and Ryouta's hair, the color of sand, and brightness. Tetsuya would love him better, but not best; no, not the best at all.

Ryouji woke to the smell of waffles, and eggs. They followed the sound of laughter, from the kitchen, and counted down the days.

 

 

**( Kise/Kuroko, Kagami. In which their children make the disastrous mistake of not adhering to basic rules of courtesy. )**

 

 

“New house rule,” Ryouta says, with as much dignity as he can muster despite the way his youngest son is staring at him like some fascinating and completely out-of-his-depth porn trope (which Ryouma should not be looking at, by the way) and his middle child is making a permanent hole in the couch with his body, “no one is allowed to enter our room without knocking.”

Ryouichi just looks bored. “We knocked. Twice.”

“And you kept going anyway,” Ryouji wails, through the gaps of his fingers.”You kept going and going and _oh my god, dad_.”

“You used to call me papa,” says Ryouta, sadly. Tetsuya gives him a look, the same kind he gives Ryouta whenever he misses the point (this happens a lot). “What happened?”

“ _You started leaving the door unlocked, that’s what_.”

“And anyway,” says Ryouichi, clearing his throat, “didn’t we already have this rule before?”

“Really?” Ryouma says, looking confused. “We did?”

“You were eight,” Ryouichi assures him. “You probably don’t remember.”

“Good for him,” Ryouji moans, piteously. Sometimes Ryouta wonders if Ryouji isn’t the baby in the family. Tetsuya has to rub his back consolingly.

"New rule, then,” says Tetsuya, “no sex in the house until all of you move out for college.”

“ _What_ ,” Ryouta and Ryouichi say, at the same time.

“What if I have a girlfriend,” says Ryouichi, indignant.

“Girlfriend,” Ryouma sniggers. “Right.”

“That’s too long,” says Ryouta. “I’ll be old and gnarled and unlovable by then. And less flexible, by the way.”

The children make similar horrified faces on cue. Tetsuya rubs his forehead with his fingers.

“Any other suggestions, then?” Tetsuya asks, dryly, before the noise descends on him again.

 

 

“And anyway it’s not like it’s the first time,” says Ryouma, nattering on as he picks out the bellpeppers from his slice of pizza. “I mean, I’m pretty sure we saw them on the couch last christmas. I think they thought we were asleep.”

“Go on,” says Kagami, looking deeply disturbed about hearing things about his former classmate and rival’s sexual exploits but forging on because he cares deeply for his godsons and he’d rather they went to him than to _Aomine_ for advice. The last time Ryouji had sort of clued in on Aomine that he may or may not have feelings for an upperclassman, Aomine had handed him a condom and a bottle of lubricant without a word. Some guiding figure he turned out.

“I think Ryou-nii’s just freaking out about everything as usual and aniki just wants to blackmail dad into buying him a new DS,” says Ryouma. “Dad tends to go a little crazy with the gifts when he thinks he’s stunted our emotional growth.”

“A little,” Kagami repeats.

“Crazier than usual,” Ryouma amends. “Which reminds me, I don’t know if we ever got around to disinfecting the couch.”

“I sit on that couch,” says Kagami, blanching.

“You prepare meals on the kitchen counter, too, but that never stopped you, right, ji-san,” says Ryouma. “Or was that supposed to be a secret? Oops?”

Kagami makes a mental note to call Tetsuya _right away_ and impress on him the importance of hygiene in the kitchen. He is never coming over for dinner now.

 

 

“So you see this is a problem,” says Kagami, voice fuzzy from the phone line.

Kuroko adjusts the phone to his ear, lets it rest in the space between his shoulder and his cheek. “Yes?”

“I tell you that your youngest son is detailing your sordid sex life to me and _you only say yes_ ,” says Kagami. “What is wrong with you? No, don’t tell me, I can tell this will take a while.”

“It’ll be shorter than Midorimacchi’s, at least,” Kise mutters, from where he’s trailing a long line across Kuroko’s back with his tongue, leaving the slightest tremors in his wake. “He’s just jealous.”

“Nnn,” is the only thing that comes out of Kuroko’s mouth. He keeps his fingers fisted on his lap, pulling his apron lower to hide what little of his bare skin he can.

“Oh fuck,” says Kagami, “you’re doing it again, aren’t you? Isn’t the cordless phone in the _dining room_? What the fuck, you guys?”

Kuroko hangs up.

 

 

**( Kise/Kuroko. In which Kise wants some things. )**

 

 

June is the month of fire.

Before the sky is dark and the stars scatter into the night, the sun sinks to meet the ocean. Red bleeds and disappears into the clouds; the brightness crackles and spits against some imagined sea god.

All this is lost to Ryouta; inside, it is quiet, save for Tetsuya's ragged breathing, the swell of his voice trapped in Ryouta's mouth, his palm, his splayed fingers across the red of Tetsuya's mouth.

Tetsuya keeps his fingers fisted, against the sheets. On his knees and trembling, his skin white, paler still, Ryouta thinks he looks beautiful, like this, safe, and all his. When Tetsuya's back arches and rises to meet the hard planes of Ryouta's chest, sticky with sweat and the humidity, Ryouta cants his hips faster; he touches Tetsuya's stomach and _prays_. He is not a religious man, but there are some things that plague him, that trap him like ghosts. He wonders if Tetsuya can forgive -- if he will forgive.

The chances of pregnancy are one in one hundred, less so without preparation, for a man. There are some pregnancies that take, and some that do not; will Tetsuya wonder if this is a rare chance, Ryouta thinks, or will he know to what extent Ryouta will keep him close, like this?

It's a thought that sobers him, through the tensing of Tetsuya's muscles, his choked gasps, his stuttering half-whispers of Ryouta's name. Ryouta comes, and thinks of fire, and blood; he thinks of his son.

And somewhere, in the fringes of sleep, in parts he thought he'd left untouched, unbreached, Tetsuya whispers, like a child:

"Ryouta-kun," (a fistful of cloth, fire in his mouth, a voice he sometimes cannot stand --), "let me go. I can't breathe."

Ryouta shuts his eyes against his ghosts and demons and promises _never_.

Ryouta just wants.

 

 


End file.
